On the application of quotes
by LadyForgotten
Summary: An on-going sereis of one-shots based on quotes.


**Disclaimer**: I still don't own the characters, just borrowing them to play.

**Warning**: Mentions of drug use

**Pairings**: could be gen or pre-slash depending on your own preference

Not brit-picked or beta-read

_Thousands of geniuses live and die undiscovered – either by themselves or by others._

_Mark Twain_

At the tender age of five Sherlock had come to a conclusion which would prove to determine his whole life: Other people were idiots.

Of course there were a few exceptions: him, Mycroft, Mummy and Daddy – sadly not even a handful against the billions of idiots polluting the earth.

There wasn't one incident that led him to such a drastic conclusion, but one year of intense study and observations.

His nannies were a prime example:

The blonde one, who was so boring Sherlock didn't even bother remembering her name, had somehow managed to disfigure herself in an attempt to win his father's attention.

She had bleached her hair in order to look younger (it clashed terribly with her fake tan) and had done something with her lips that made her resemble a trout.

Anyone with only one functioning brain cell could tell that was not his father's taste. Just look at his Mummy.

Melanie was plain stupid. No nicer way of putting it. She insisted on dressing Sherlock up like a doll. He was forced to endure her high-pitched exclaims of how 'cute' and 'adorable' he was. She was always tutting when she found him with an interesting book on biology or chemistry or playing Mendelssohn on violin, lecturing him about being to young for that.

Arianne wasn't that bad, because she had realised Sherlock's brilliance and supplied him with books, note sheets, harmless things to experiment on and some entertaining pirate stories. However, she failed to realize her fiancée was cheating on her. Him nervously pulling at the engagement ring was a dead give-away, so why she had burst into tears and screams when he mentioned it to her, remained a mystery to Sherlock.

His teachers weren't much better.

Mr. Hornet saddled Sherlock with stupid writing exercises like letters to imaginary friends or describing pictures. Whenever would Sherlock write a friend? Furthermore, why should he describe something if people were to blind to observe for themselves?

Mrs. Thoullier taught him French, while thinking she was a femme parisienne. Her accent was screaming that she was Welsh as much as her fake Channel bags screamed of her material prospects.

Mr. Wilks was a good violin teacher. His technique flawless, his knowledge about the composers and the music pieces seemingly endless. The man never held back on praising his student's talent. For some time Sherlock had believed that he had found another interesting, remarkable person. Up to the time when Mr. Wilks encountered him playing singular, discordant notes rather than a classical piece. Horrified he had demanded for Sherlock to explain his action. Answering that it helped him focus his whirling thoughts, the boy noted – quite disappointed – the expression of distaste and annoyance in his teacher's body language.

Despite the overwhelming signs supporting his conclusion 'Others were idiots', Sherlock decided to pursue his study on this particular subject.

The evidence only grew with the progressing years.

Somewhere before entering university the assumption cemented itself as fact in Holmes head, therefore causing his attitude to become downright condescending and anti-social.

Drugs proved to be a wonderful way to put him out of the misery of dealing with the world.

They focused his thoughts, allowing him to concentrate on the important data everyone else was missing. At the same time they also numbed him to the interactions with other humans and their unbearably small, defect brains.

He would have gladly stayed in the comforting haze and sharpness initiated by the drugs, if they hadn't started interfering with his work.

How to get them, how to pay for them, when best to take some became the dominating thoughts in his head.

It was unacceptable. Everything that mattered was the work. The drugs became more of a hindrance than a stimulant for his brain.

Hence why he quit them cold turkey without hardly a regret.

Aside from regaining all his mental faculties quitting drugs gave him the chance to be taken more seriously by New Scotland Yard.

DI Lestrade turned out to be the most tolerable of a bad lot, so Sherlock stuck with him.

The DI wasn't half bad, quite sharp, actually, for being part of the herd. Still he stayed glued to his 'approved procedures' and his penchant for theorizing without taking into account all the clues presented to him.

He didn't observe, didn't think to his full capacity. Dull, idiotic.

His sergeant was even worse. She was quite promising, yet too impatient to get the clues together. On top of that she also refused to acknowledge him as a better, bristling insults whenever she got a chance.

The crème de la crème was Anderson. Butchering up crime scene after crime scene, bagging the most useless things he could find, while disregarding important details … the list of Anderson's misgivings could fill whole libraries.

To put it in a nutshell: Sherlock Holmes believed – no knew – most others to be lacking in genius.

Then he met John H. Watson.

Admittedly, it had taken an unreasonable long time to discover John's genius.

There was always something he missed.

When Stamford had introduced them the detective was sure that John would be quite a promising flatmate.

As a former army doctor Watson shouldn't be too disgruntled with his experiments and various body parts in the flat – he was bound to have seen worse.

His little addiction to adrenaline, Sherlock had thought, would make him a useful asset on cases. He did need an assistant, after all.

Much later, Sherlock would berate himself for judging too quickly. Maybe stupidity was catching and too much exposure to Anderson was to blame for his lapse?

It hadn't taken Holmes by surprise that the doctor hid a steely core under the layers of jumpers, kind smiles and sympathetic words.

But he hadn't expected the open admiration and praise John dished out as freely as the tea he made.

That had been his first clue: It did take a great amount of self-awareness to recognize someone smarter, while retaining enough self-confidence to not slip into passive-aggressive defensiveness. Extraordinary.

His second clue were John's reactions to Sherlock's 'amoral' or 'sociopathic' behaviour. The smaller man would become angry, frustrated, upset. Sometimes he would shout or leave the flat or sulk silently. Nevertheless, he would always accept and respect Sherlock's decisions. John would disagree, true, but he never held it over his flatmate's head as if he was defect because thinking and feeling differently.

For someone willing to observe the signs of John's genius should have been obvious.

They were there in the way he prepared the perfect tea, regardless of whom it was for.

It showed in his steady hands and warmth and little lines carved into his face by sand and worry.

He never failed to ask the right question or make a wrong deduction or focus the detective with a soft exhale of his name.

Talking to John made the thoughts racing inside his head more tangible. John had become the catalyst to Sherlock's intricate thought process.

It was better than the violin playing, although he would never give up that particular comfort.

John was better than the drugs, as he didn't simply numb the sting of interaction with others. He inserted himself actively between Sherlock and the world. Shielding his friend from the dreadful comments and mundane necessities of life with weary sighs and breathless laughter.

He didn't flinch back from his flatmate's bleak moods or harsh assessments, taking the insults, the silence and nocturne playing in stride, along with the shards of his failed relationships.

Aside from insisting that the detective should take better care of himself there were no attempts to change him.

Instead John seemed to enjoy Sherlock's company most of the time.

So what if he might have become a little addicted to the situation? There was no one to call him out on it, due to no one noticing the genius wrapped in the former soldier.

The consultant couldn't help the satisfaction curling inside of him at the thought of so many people, including Mycroft and Moriarty, having missed that genius. Even John himself.

All things considered it was for the better.

It reduced the probability of his flatmate leaving or being tempted away by someone else, if they all missed his true genius.

People were idiots, after all.

_Fin_

**Author's Note**: Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed it and weren't too put of by Sherlock's OOC-ness. Please excuse any mistakes as English is only my second language.

I will make this into a series of one-shots based on quotes, so if you have a quote you'd like to see applied to the series feel free to let me know.

Reviews of any kind are greatly appreciated!


End file.
